There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet Book 2)

At night, lying in bed in the darkness, I can tell that Cole is not yet asleep. No slow, heavy breaths, only the stillness that tells me he’s thinking about something with all his focus.

I’m also thinking hard.

Probably on the same topic.

We both saw those pictures this morning. And we both know what it means.

Shaw is starting another cycle of killing, with barely any break since the last. That means two more girls sacrificed to his hunger. Maybe more.

How many will it take for Officer Hawks to get the evidence he needs?

Cole says Hawks isn’t even following Shaw. He’s tailing us instead.

I’m dreading Shaw crashing my show. He wasn’t invited, but I’m sure he’d love to turn up to gloat in our faces again.

I hate him. I hate that he’s roaming around unchecked, more vicious and violent by the day.

I could have saved this girl. She was twenty-four, a year younger than me. A med student, apparently.

If I’d agreed with Cole right away then Shaw might already be dead. He never could have snatched her from whatever sidewalk or alleyway he found her.

My refusal of violence was a pillar in my own sense of self. The evidence that I was a good person.

Now I wonder if I’m just a coward.

The idea of facing Shaw, of taking real action against him, terrifies me. I never stopped having nightmares of the night he grabbed me. I’ve never felt more afraid than when his bull-like body hurtled toward me, too fast to run or even to scream before he hit me so hard it felt like my head exploded.

This time, Cole will be with me.

But even Cole isn’t looking forward to the battle with Shaw. He knows better than I the level of Shaw’s brutality and cunning. It won’t be easy to catch him off guard.

If I do nothing, as surely as the sun rises, I’ll see another article about a murdered girl.

“Cole,” I say, breaking the still silence.

Immediately he replies, “Yes?”

“We have to kill Shaw.”

He lets out a small breath of air that might be amusement.

“I know that. I’ve known it all along. You’re finally catching up.”

“Well, I’m here now. How do we do it?”

“You’re not ready yet.”

This is so infuriating that I roll over in a huff, leaning on my elbow, trying to make out his expression in the dark.

“What are you talking about?”

“If you’re agreeing that we need to do this, then you’re going to help me. We have the best chance of success working together. But you’re not ready.”

This is outrageous. I’ve finally agreed to do what he wants, and now he’s fucking with me.

“You think you’re going to train me? Like fucking Miyagi?”

“I’m going to prepare you.”

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. And I’m not sure I want to find out.

“We don’t have time for that! Shaw’s going to kill another girl. Or me!” I say, hoping that will spur him along.

Cole lets out a sigh.

“You are thinking in normal-person terms. That is not how Shaw or I think. Our time horizon is infinite. Now that the element of surprise is gone, he doesn’t care if it takes a week, a month, or twenty years to destroy me. In fact, he would prefer to prolong it. He enjoys the game, that’s the entire point …”

It gives me a chill realizing that while Cole and I are coming to understand each other, it is still Shaw with whom he shares the most similarity of mind.

“I don’t want to watch the bodies stack up,” I tell Cole. “We have to do something.”

“We will,” Cole assures me. “Very soon.”

My show takes place two weeks before Christmas.

It’s the first time my art will be displayed all on its own, unable to hide amongst other paintings.

I feel the sickest sense of dread as Cole and I drive to the gallery in Laurel Heights, wondering what will happen if no one attends.

I once saw an author sitting alone at a table in Costco with a towering stack of books, and not a single person interested in having one signed. Her look of hopeful anticipation as I approached, followed by crushing disappointment as I walked past, is still one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.

I don’t want to be that author.

“Don’t worry,” Cole says, squeezing my thigh as he turns the wheel with his other hand. “These things are always packed. Especially when I hire even better caterers than Betsy, with enough champagne to drown a horse.”

“That actually comforts me,” I laugh. “If the paintings are shit, at least the food will be good.”

“I would never let you down with food,” Cole promises solemnly. “I know it’s your top priority.”

“I better quit making it my top priority. I think I’ve gained eight pounds since I moved into your house.”

“I like it,” Cole says. “It’s making your tits bigger.”

I slap his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up!”

Cole grabs a handful of the breast in question, sneaking his hand down the front of my top faster than I can smack him away.

“I’m gonna feed you so much fucking cheese,” he teases me.

I can’t stop laughing.

“Please, no. I’ll be four hundred pounds.”

“I want to drown in your breasts. What a way to die.”

We pull up to the curb, too soon for me to spend any more time worrying.

I’m relieved to see that the gallery is already packed with people, including Sonia manning the door in a gorgeous shimmering cocktail dress, and Frank and Heinrich lurking right behind her.

Heinrich pops out to pull me into an embrace. Frank does the same, after giving Cole a stare that is half admiration, half lingering nervousness.

“Thanks for coming!” I cry, hugging them both hard.

“Joss and Brinley are here, too,” Frank tells me.

I assume that means Joanna isn’t. I didn’t expect anything different, but it still stings.

The gallery throbs with the playlist I spent all week picking out.

Cole encouraged me to choose the music myself, even though I wasn’t sure anybody else would like it.

“Who gives a shit,” he says. “It’s what you were playing when you painted the pieces, so the songs will match the work. They already go together, whether you meant them to or not.”

He’s right.

As a cover of Heart-Shaped Box pours out of the speakers, the creepy music-box backing track perfectly suits my oversized painting of a charred teddy bear, glass eyes melted, fur still smoking in places.

I hadn’t realized ‘till this moment how the painting’s title echoes the lyrics of the song:

Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet

Cut myself on angel hair and baby’s breath

This one hurt me the most to paint. It’s just a fucking bear, but I was overwhelmed with guilt that something I had loved had met such a bitter end. I almost didn’t finish, putting the painting aside, then changing my mind, turning it around again, and setting it back on the easel. I tilted it, I Remember and I Don’t Forget.

This series includes eight paintings in all, each larger than the last. I want the viewer to feel dwarfed by the canvases, overwhelmed by them. Like they themselves have shrunk down to child-size.

I painted at a speed I never could have imagined when I had to squeeze in my art between endless work shifts, already exhausted by the time I lifted brush to canvas.

Some of the paintings are realistic, others include surreal elements.

One is called The Two Maras, a reference to Frida Kahlo’s famous portrait.

In mine, the first version of Mara stands before a large mirror. The “real” Mara is battered and bruised, with a wide-eyed expression of fear. Her reflection in the mirror looks ten years older: glossy-haired and dressed in a diaphanous black gown, her eyes dark and ferocious, her entire aura crackling with the terrible power of a sorceress.

I called the painting of the girl in the nightgown The Burial, as Cole suggested.

The next one along is the same girl in the same nightgown, sitting barefoot on a bus, her feet filthy and scratched, her head leaning exhausted against the window.

All the adults gaze blindly in her direction, their blank faces nothing but a smear of paint. Mind Your Business, the title card reads.

Seeing all my paintings together, properly hung and lighted, is the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced.

I’m looking into the window of my own future—a dream I had hoped for desperately, but only ever half-believed.

Here it is now in front of me, and I still can’t believe it.

“How do you feel?” Cole asks me.

“Drunk—and I haven’t had a sip of champagne.”

This time as Cole and I make the rounds, I’m starting to remember people’s names and faces, and they’re starting to remember me. I almost feel comfortable chatting with Jack Brisk, who has forgotten that he ever dumped a drink on my dress and is asking if I’d be interested in showing at his collective exhibition in the spring.

“It’s an all-female show,” Brisk says pompously. “Supporting women’s voices. Nobody loves women more than me.”

“Obviously,” Cole says. “That’s why you’ve been married four times.”

“Five, actually,” Brisk says, roaring with laughter. “I could fund the UN with all the alimony payments I’ve made.”

The pretty young thing on Brisk’s arm, sporting an engagement ring that looks quite new, does not seem as amused by this conversation. When she flounces off and Jack Brisk chases after her, Sonia sidles up to me and says, “She’s just mad ‘cause she’s the first one he’s making sign a prenup.”

As Cole gets pulled into a conversation with Betsy Voss, Sonia amuses me by whispering other bits of gossip about everyone else who passes.

“That’s Joshua Gross over there—he tried to throw a pop-up show this summer. Displaying paintings in posh houses all over the city. Mixing art with architectural porn.”

“Not a bad idea,” I say.

“It was a fucking disaster. July was blazing hot, and everybody with money had gone to Malibu or Aspen or the Hamptons. Those of us stupid enough to attend were stuck in traffic for six hours trying to drive between houses. It turned out that he never got the right permits to sell paintings out of houses. The city slapped him with so many fines that I doubt he made a dollar off the show.”

Poor Joshua still looks frazzled, with unshaven stubble and a haunted look on his face as he gulps down a glass of champagne, a second glass clutched in his other hand.

“And her over there—” Sonia gives a subtle nod toward a slim Asian girl with a long fall of shining dark hair. “That’s Gemma Zhang. She’s the newest writer for the Siren. Now this I don’t know for certain, but I have my suspicions …”

I lean in close so no one but Sonia and I can hear.

“The biggest art mag in Los Angeles is Artillery—they ran this gossip column written by a guy called Mitchell Mulholland. Mulholland was just a pseudonym, nobody knew who he really was. All they knew was that come Monday morning, this Mulholland seemed to have been everywhere and seen everything. He was writing about shit like he was hiding inside our houses, telling everybody’s secrets, stirring up all kinds of drama. Everybody was freaking out. He caused so much trouble that Artillery had to stop running the column. Mulholland disappeared. Now Gemma’s writing for Siren … and all I can say is, a couple of her articles sound pretty damn familiar to me … That biting voice reminds me of a certain someone.”

“You think Mulholland was actually Gemma?” I ask.

Sonia shrugs. “All I’m saying is be careful around her … she’s a fucking shark.”

Watching Gemma take a sip of her drink, her dark eyes flitting everywhere at once, clever and bright, I think Sonia might just be right.

Cole escapes Betsy Voss, who was tipsy enough to require support from his arm, batting her false eyelashes at him until one fell off and landed on Cole’s wrist. He flicked it away like a spider, shuddering.

“You owe me for that one,” Cole murmurs in my ear. “Betsy has a buyer lined up for The Burial. But I had to let her run her hands all over my chest for that entire conversation. I’m practically your gigolo these days.”

“Yeah, you want a commission?” I tease him. “Or you just want to run your hands over someone’s chest …”

Cole lets his eyes roam down the front of my jacket, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me close.

“That might suffice …” he growls.

I’m wearing a velvet pantsuit in dark plum. I feel like a rockstar.

Cole undresses me with his eyes like the velvet can be pulled away with a glance. He’s charged up, maybe even more excited than I am. He gazes around the packed gallery, not bothering to hide his grin of triumph.

Cole wasn’t lying.

He really does love to see me succeed.

“Look who’s here,” Sonia says.

Shaw comes through the double doors, a stunning blonde on his arm. The girl looks pleased and excited, clinging to Shaw’s bicep.

Shaw bears no smile at all, sullen and abrupt as people try to greet him.

He locks eyes with me from across the room.

I feel Cole stiffen, drawing me even closer to him.

“He looks pissed,” I mutter to Cole.

“I told you, he’s salty about Corona Heights.”

Shaw stares at me, ignoring the girl at his side. Every second that passes, I can feel Cole getting more agitated, as if he’d like to sprint across the room and put out Shaw’s eyes.

When Shaw finally turns away, distracted by Betsy Voss, Cole says, “If he comes within ten feet of you, I’m going to tear out his throat.”

“He’s not gonna do anything here. You said so yourself.”

“I don’t want him here at all,” Cole hisses. “I don’t even want him looking at you.”

I can still feel a pair of eyes fixed on me. Not Shaw’s—it’s Gemma Zhang, glancing between Shaw, Cole, and myself. She watched the entire exchange. As brief and uneventful as it was, she seems to have found interest in it, as she’s now smiling slightly.

“I’ve got to pee,” I say to Cole.

I head back to the bathrooms, where I hear the distinctive sniff of someone taking a pick-me-up in the adjoining stall, and the crackle of a tampon wrapper from the other side.

I take my time, savoring the solitude of the stall after the hubbub of the party. It’s heady to be the center of attention, but also exhausting.

When I’ve finished and washed my hands, I almost collide with Gemma Zhang. I suspect she was waiting outside the bathroom to orchestrate just this sort of meeting.

“Mara Eldritch,” she says, holding out a freshly-manicured hand. “The woman of the hour.”

“Gemma, right?” I say, taking the hand and shaking it.

“Did Sonia warn you about me?” she smiles slyly. “She’s quite the guard dog for Cole Blackwell. Can’t take a step in his direction with Sonia barking at you.”

“She’s good at her job.”

I’m trying to decide how I feel about Gemma. She’s quite lovely, elegantly dressed in her silk jumpsuit, but there’s a wicked edge to her smile that doesn’t put me at ease.

“You must see a lot of Sonia,” Gemma muses. “While you’re seeing a lot of Cole. Living together already, aren’t you?”

There’s no point denying what everyone already knows.

“That’s right.”

“That was fast. Love at first sight?”

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Cole in love at all. Is this all part of the rivalry?”

“What do you mean?”

“My sources tell me that it was Alastor Shaw who took an interest in you first.”

“Your sources are wrong. I’ve barely spoken to Shaw.”

“But he did date your roommate …”

“I don’t want to talk about Erin,” I snap.

“Of course,” Gemma offers an expression of sympathy I don’t quite believe. “What an awful thing. I’m sure you heard about the girl they found down by Black Point … people are saying she was posed like a painting.”

“That’s what I heard,” I say stiffly.

“Can you imagine if an artist was doing all this?” Gemma pretends to look around us. “They could be here right now.”

“Are you writing about the murders?”

“Actually …” Gemma smiles brightly. “I’m writing about you. San Francisco’s newest rising star!”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, it’s certain. Look at these paintings! Just stunning. Drawn from personal experience, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Why so many references to childhood?”

“Childhood shapes us all—the events we remember, and even those we don’t.”

“It’s shaped you as an artist?”

I shrug. “Remedios Varo learned to draw by copying construction blueprints her father brought home from work. Andy Warhol was a sickly child who spent his days drawing in bed, surrounded by celebrity posters and magazines. Our history always influences our aesthetic.”

“These don’t look like happy memories.”

“That one might be,” I nod toward the painting nearest us, which depicts a girl and a cat curled up asleep in a bed of tulips.

When I was very young, maybe three, I woke up from a nap in an empty apartment. It might have been the silence that woke me. I slipped off my little mattress and wandered through the apartment, which didn’t belong to us, but where I’d been staying with my mother for several weeks. I navigated the empty bottles and trash scattered everywhere, afraid to call out and break the eerie silence.

I found the front door, which stood partially open.

I wandered out into the hall, and then down the stairs, never seeing another person.

When I came out onto the sidewalk, a large calico cat sat waiting on the steps, gazing at me with unblinking eyes. Being three, I was certain the cat waited for me. It jumped down off the step and began strolling around the corner. I followed after it.

Eventually, it settled down in the tulip bed of the back garden, stretching out in the sunshine. I climbed up onto the warm dirt and lay with the cat, my head against its body. We both drifted off with the gentle buzz of bees all around us.

Later, an old woman found me. She took me up to her apartment and fed me coconut cake. I had never eaten coconut before.

That was a memory I returned to in times of stress or pain. I believed the cat was there to take care of me. I believed it for years.

But I don’t tell any of that to Gemma.

“Even that one’s lonely,” Gemma says, tilting her head to the side as she examines The Nap. “The dark color palette … the smallness of the child next to the cat …”

It’s true. The cat is oversized, a calico tiger, larger than the girl herself, who almost disappears amongst the jumbled stems of tulips.

“The girl’s always alone,” Gemma persists. “Where’s her parents?”

“I have no idea,” I say before I can think better of it. “Excuse me—I’ve got other people I need to speak to.”

My heart twitches uncomfortably against my ribs.

I don’t like Gemma’s bright eyes trained on me, or her line of questioning.

The rest of the show passes pleasantly enough. Shaw only stays twenty minutes, slapping a few backs and shaking a few hands, but keeping his distance from Cole and me. It gives me a chill when he stands before each of my paintings in turn, examining them closely before moving on to the next.

I don’t like that he’s looking inside my head.

That’s the nature of art. You open yourself for everyone to see, to judge. You can’t make art at all unless you’re willing to lay yourself bare and risk what follows.

Shaw’s date lingers by the buffet, shifting her weight on her towering high heels, bored and probably a little lonely.

I want to sidle up and whisper in her ear to run far, far away.

“You don’t have to worry about her,” Cole says.

“Why not?”

“He’s not going to kill someone he dated publicly.”

“He killed Erin.”

“Only on impulse. He was there for you.”

I imagine Shaw’s heavy hand clamping over my mouth while I lay sound asleep on my old mattress.

Going to Cole’s house that night saved my life.

It will lose Shaw his.

Three days later, Gemma Zhang publishes her article about me.

She’s complimentary to my work and the show in general.

But the final paragraph makes my stomach lurch:

I contacted Mara’s mother Tori Eldritch to get her comment on the autobiographical show that references themes of neglect and abuse.

Tori said:

“It’s all lies. Mara had a perfect childhood, anything she could ever want. She was pampered. Spoiled, even. She’ll do anything for attention, she’s always been that way. I took her to so many psychiatrists, but they could never fix her. I don’t call that art. Fantasy, more like. A filthy, deceptive fantasy to slander the people who took care of her. My lawyer says I should sue her for defamation.”

That puts a different spin on the collection of ostensibly personal images.

In speaking to Mara Eldritch, she told me, “Childhood shapes all of us—the events we remember, and even those we don’t.”

Perhaps Mara is leaning hard on those events we “don’t remember.”

I shove the laptop away from me, face burning.

“That fucking CUNT!” I shout.

“Gemma, or your mother?” Cole inquires.

“Both!”

“No one’s going to believe your mother,” Cole says dismissively. “She’s nobody. You’re the one with the microphone.”

I’m still seething, the room spinning around me.

“She can’t let me have anything. She can’t stand what it would mean, if I succeed without her, in spite of her.”

“You already are succeeding,” Cole says serenely. “And she can’t do a damn thing about it.”